


Caen Me A'baethe

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Apathetic Enemies to fuck buddies to lovers, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Smut, Sorcerer Connor, Sumo is basically Roach in this scenario, Trans Male Character, Witcher Hank
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 20:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15692511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Caught practically penniless in the height of summer, Hank is forced to take the best paying contracts he can before he returns home for the winter. Initial misgivings aside, he accepts a contract on a sorcerer that is allegedly plaguing the village of Oreton.Things get complicated pretty quickly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A'IGHT HERE WE GO. I mentioned Witcher Hank on twitter weeks ago as a sort of joke, and I should really know better than to joke about AUs by now because my brain won't let me sleep until I've thought of everything that could possibly happen and then I have to write it and... Well, here we are.
> 
> Title is Hen Llinge (Elder Speech) for "Give Me A Kiss."

He wouldn’t have even considered stopping if Sumo hadn’t been shuddering with exhaustion. They day had been unreasonable hot and dust clung to his dappled coat so thickly he almost looked grey in the setting sunlight, so Hank leads the horse to the water trough outside the tavern and dismounts, throwing the reigns over the post so Sumo can lower his head to drink deeply of the cold water. The other horses seem unbothered by the stranger’ presence, ears flicking disinterestedly as Hank murmurs softly to his steed before heading into the weathered tavern in search of food and drink.  

 

He ignores the pointed stares and heavy glares from the few patrons inside, heading straight for the bar and tossing down the last of his coins on the grainy wooden surface. The taverness eyes the gold before flicking her distrusting gaze up to his face, over his white hair and yellow eyes. Hank doesn’t shy away from it, shifts his weight easily onto his right leg, arms folded.  

 

“Let me guess, you don’t serve Witchers.” 

 

The taverness snatches up the coins, dropping them into the purse at her belt. “We serve everybody,” she says. “Long as they give us no trouble. That’ll get you a drink and a leg of lamb and no more.” 

 

Hank inclines his head. “That’ll do.” The taverness waves him away to a small table in the corner which suits Hank just fine. He sits sideways in the chair, back against the wall, watching the other patrons slowly look away from him and return to their own business. The atmosphere hums with tension and the conversation doesn’t flow as easily as before, but Hank’s used to that by now. Nobody’s at ease when there’s a Witcher around.  

 

The taverness drops a stein and a metal plate in front of him. The meat is more fat than anything else but it’s hot and the mead is cold and it’s a relief on his empty stomach and parched throat. He wipes the fatty juice from his beard and downs the contents of the stein in one go, giving a muted belch into his fist. He’d not been expecting to find a welcoming room here, so he’ll finish up and groom Sumo before finding a suitable clearing to rest in. At least there’s no risk of rain tonight.  

 

Eyes follow him as he stands and leaves and a petty part of him wants to cause a little bit of a ruckus just for the fun of it but he refrains, stepping outside and taking a brush from the stableboy’s stool and scouring the dust from Sumo’s coat. The beast knickers softly, ears twitching back towards his master as Hank works over him, fingers curling affectionately in his mane as he untangles the worst of the knots.  

 

“I’ll get you property cleaned up in Novigrad,” Hank murmurs. “You deserve it. Just a couple more days and you’ll look handsome again.” 

 

Sumo snorts softly, right foreleg pawing the ground as he lifts his head, one dark eye gazing at Hank. He pats the beast’s flank and takes the reigns, climbing up into the saddle and guiding him back onto the trail. As always Sumo is quick to obey, winding fluidly through the dusty trails towards the village outskirts. Hank leans left in the saddle to snatch a few contracts from the noticeboard as they pass it, stuffing them into his pack for later. He’s flat out, now, and with winter still a long way away, he’ll have to take some high paying contracts if he wants to survive the summer without dying of thirst.  

 

The surrounding woods, thankfully, are relatively free of anything that wants to actively kill Hank in his sleep, bar a few nekkers who get a bit too close and squeal as Hank’s silver blade slices through them like paper. He sets them up in a small clearing with a modest camp fire just as the sun starts to set, propping his back up against a fallen tree as he settles down. Sumo grazes sedately a few feet away and Hank stretches out, digging through his pack for the contracts he took earlier, leading through the parchment for anything particularly interesting.  

 

As far as contracts go they’re not particularly difficult, but one does offer two hundred crowns for ridding a village of a noonwraith. With any luck Hank will be able to haggle up to two-fifty, possibly more if he uses Axii. That and the bounty for destroying a nest of ghouls will see him comfortably through to Novigrad.  

 

He almost discards the final contract, mainly because it’s hastily scrawled and crying out for the help of anyone, not particularly a Witcher. But the bounty on it draws his eye before anything else, eyebrows raising as he rereads the scrawled amount at the bottom of the page.  

 

Five thousand crowns.  

 

His interest is definitely piqued.  

 

The location is listed as Oreton, which in itself is unusual. It’s not a particularly affluent town by any means, a modest, riverside hamlet that relies on fishing and little livestock. Yet the contract seems desperate for aid, hence the hefty reward. It’s not very informative, just a few lines begging for help to rid the village of a ‘scourge’. For that price, Hank is expecting an Ekimmara or a werewolf. Maybe even a Leshen, if the fates are particularly keen to shit in his dinner again. Well, whatever it is will have to wait until tomorrow. Oreton is a good few hours ride away and Hank is already exhausted. He stuffs the contracts back in his pack and throws an arm over his eyes, right hand curled around the hilt of his silver sword. He sleeps like that, unmoving, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, ever listening to everything that moves in the night.  

 

~

 

Morning comes and with it the uneventful ride to Oreton. The day is scorching once again and Hank’s pupils have narrowed to little more than hair-thin slits against the light. Sumo’s neck is drenched with sweat so Hank takes a few moments every mile or so to pour water from his skein over the beast’s back, cooling him down under the heavy sunlight. Sumo shakes his head gratefully each time, tail swishing to keep away errant flies.  

 

When Oreton finally rises up on the road ahead, Hank urges Sumo into a brisk canter, dismounting just on the border and bidding Sumo off to cool in the shallows of the river while he seeks out whomever can enlighten him regarding the contract. He starts at the inn, flagging down a harried innkeeper and holding out the contract.  

 

“Any idea where I can find who wrote this?” Hank asks. The innkeeper looks over it briefly and nods once, a sharp, jerky motion.  

 

“That’ll be Reed,” he says. “Last house on the left by the river stands. Can’t miss it. Has an old oar above the doorway.” He bustles away without another word and Hank folds the contract and heads for the aforementioned dwelling.  

 

The master of the house – Reed – is an irritable man with a scarred nose and narrowed, distrustful eyes. He doesn’t open the door far enough for Hank to step inside so he holds up the contract which Reed snatches out of his hand.  

 

“I didn’t ask for a Witcher,” he says, lip curling.  

 

“Well, you got one. So what’s the problem?” 

 

It takes a few moments of what Hank assumes is some great moral dilemma on Reed’s part to get an answer, but he doesn’t comment on it. Five thousand crowns is five thousand crowns. Hank can hold his sarcastic tongue for that, at least.  

 

“There’s a sorcerer,” Reed says flatly. “Lives a little way in the forest to the north. Since he arrived we’ve had nothing but trouble. We’re losing livestock, our nets come back empty. Kill him and we’ll pay you.” 

 

A bounty on a sorcerer. It’s not uncommon, but usually it’s from a little higher up the ladder than some asshole in a village. Normally a bounty on a magic user would come from a superstitious ruler or duplicitous official mouth-sexing the words of the Eternal Fire. It’s… concerning, to say the least.  

 

“Didn’t fancy hauling together a lynch mob?”  

 

Reed scowls. “We tried. Bastard burned our ropes with a flick of his hand and the forest turned against us. We can’t get anywhere close now.” 

 

Hank thinks, inexplicably, of his brothers. Of the humans that hunted down the entire school of the Bear and left Hank the last of its Witchers. Witch hunts are not uncommon, though it stirs something like unease in Hank’s gut.  

 

But. Five thousand crowns is five thousand crowns. And Witchers are neutral, after all.  

 

“If the sorcerer is as dangerous as you say,” Hank says, “I want two thousand crowns up front.” 

 

“Not a fucking chance,” Reed spits, frowning as Hank raises a hand and draws a complex sign in the air. “I mean, of course. Let me fetch my purse.” 

 

“Much obliged,” Hank says, hiding a smirk.  

 

Reed returns and pushes a hefty coin purse into Hank’s waiting palm. He tests the weight of it, bites down on a coin, then nods once satisfied. “I’ll take a look, see what I can do,” Hank tells him. “Might take me a couple days, but I’ll report back once it’s done.” 

 

“I don’t care,” Reed says. “Just get it done and don’t bother me until it is.” The door slams between them and Hank makes a rude gesture at the door before whistling for Sumo and heading up the trail towards the woods.  

 

The forest itself is rather beautiful. Dense and emerald green, shining butter yellow from sunlight filtering through the canopy. More than that, it’s cool in the shade of the trees away from the steady burn of the sun. Wildflowers litter the grass and Hank thinks, not for the first time, of retiring somewhere overrun by nature, no one around for miles save himself and Sumo and maybe some livestock. The idea gets more tempting with every passing day. Or, more accurately, with every stuck up human he talks to.  

 

Ten minutes or so into the forest, Sumo plants his hooves and refuses to walk any further. It’s not difficult to understand why. Hank’s bear medallion hums against his chest, almost as though there’s a place of power nearby, but more concentrated, repelling. He slips out of the saddle and strokes Sumo’s nose with a few murmured reassurances before heading further into the haze of magic that makes the forest ripple like its submerged in water. The grass is broken slightly in the patchy shape of frequent footprints, only a few days old, and Hank follows them deeper into the overwhelming mire of power, focusing intently on the path rather than trying to ascertain his curiously shifting surroundings.  

 

He feels more than he sees the barrier he passes through, a glamour and an illusion more than anything harmful. It washes over his skin like icy water, momentarily stealing the breath from his lungs as he stumbles through to the other side, temporarily clouding his senses. He takes a moment to right himself before looking up at the small cabin framed by a clearing so picturesque is almost looks like an artist’s rendition of what tranquility should look like.  

 

A small garden, meticulously tended, lies on the easternmost side of the cabin, filled with herbs and all sorts of plants Hank hasn’t seen grow in the wild for many years. He finds himself somewhat dismayed that he must fulfil this contract. It seems a shame to destroy the peace that the sorcerer has cultivated here.  

 

And the sorcerer himself finally makes himself known, stepping out of the cabin, clad in nothing but tan britches and boots, a blue sash tied at his waist and a basket under one arm. His skin is pale, dotted with sparse freckles along his bare shoulders, slender with svelte musculature in his chest and arms. His eyes are oak brown and settle on Hank with no small amount of surprise when he looks up at the stranger in his territory.  

 

“ _Vatt’g_ _h_ _ern_ _?”_ He questions, tone hitching oddly as he lowers his basket. “What brings you here?” 

 

“Business,” Hank says somewhat apologetically, hand slowly lifting to the hilts of the swords at his back. “Nothing personal.” 

 

Steel glints in the dappled sunlight, and the sorcerer’s eyes barely have time to widen.  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Honestly Hank had been expecting a feint or dodge when he drew his blade on the sorcerer. The blow was quick, a sharp downward slice on the tail end of a rapid spin, more of a testing cut than anything meant to gravely wound. Hence why he had expected the sorcerer to dive out of the way or throw up a shield to block the blade.  

 

So he  _hadn’t_  expected the sudden burst of force to exploded between between them that had thrown him quite literally ass over tit into the trunk of an old cedar tree with enough force to rattle his bones.  

 

Hank shakes his head to shake the blurriness from his vision and quickly rolls to the side as the sorcerer sends a ball of flame barrelling towards him. The orb explodes in a shower of wood and embers against the bark where Hank’s head had been resting seconds ago and he scrambles to his feet, sword held at the ready in both hands above his head.  

 

“I remember Witchers being a little less eager to spill blood,” the sorcerer says, lightning crackling down his bare forearms as they circle each other in front of the cabin. “At least do me the courtesy of explaining  _why_  you’re here to kill me.” 

 

“Like I said, it’s business.” Hank’s hands tighten slightly round the hilt of his blade. “I have a contract on you with a pretty price attached to it.” 

 

“I thought as much.” The sorcerer makes a complex sweep of his hands and a crackling orb of topaz forms between his palms. “The angry man on the waterfront?” 

 

“That’s the one.” 

 

“Of course it is.” The orb rockets towards Hank without warning and he manages to dance out of the way at the last second, not completely avoiding a glancing blow to his shoulder. He staggers under the force of it and the acrid scent of burnt leather and hair fills his nostrils. “Don’t you even want to know why?” 

 

“Don’t particularly care,” Hank says, bringing his sword down hard in a diagonal slash that would have rent the sorcerer from shoulder to hip if he hadn’t blocked it with a harsh sweep of his right hand. The left curls round a palmful of flame that he thrusts towards Hank’s face. Only a well-timed cast of Quen saves Hank from facial immolation. He lifts a leg and kicks the sorcerer back with a foot against his sternum. “I don’t ask unnecessary questions when the price is right.” 

 

“A petty excuse,” the sorcerer says and, with a quick and intricate flick of his fingers, ends the reticent tete a téte between them. Lightning ripples along his bare torso, down his arms, channelling through his palms into two harsh bolts that surge towards Hank with blinding speed. Hank dives out of the way and rolls to his feet, striking fast at the sorcerer’s open left side.  

 

There’s a deafening clang as blade meets something that had been immaterial moments ago; a long, arching staff that the sorcerer wields with both hands, arms trembling under the force of Hank’s downwards strike. He bends a leg, teeth bared under the strain until, with an almighty shove, they separate and he can spin the staff expertly between his hands, charging forward with a low sweep towards Hank’s legs. The Witcher jumps, clearing the staff easily, and then immediately senses his mistake.  

 

Another bolt of pure energy hits him squarely in the chest, only his armour stopping his ribs from cracking as he’s flung back, skidding in the dirt and rolling to a spluttering stop a good few yards away. He doesn’t have time to dodge or get to his feet as the sorcerer lunges for him, staff raised to slam down with inhuman strength against Hank’s head. Desperately the Witcher slams a palm against the ground, throwing up the glowing signs of Yrden, and the sorcerer slowly, expression contorting into one of fierce dismay.  

 

It last for only a handful of seconds, enough time for Hank to stagger to his feet and knock the staff away. With a sharp blast of Aard, Hank throws the sorcerer down onto his back, keeping him pinned with a foot on his chest and the tip of his blade under his chin.  

 

“Didn’t have to make this so difficult,” Hank grumbles, tilting his head to click his neck. “I was gonna make it quick.” 

 

“You know they only put a contract on me because I fought back when they came for me,” the sorcerer spits. “Because I refused to trade my services like a common  _hag._ I was a priest of Veyopatis. I owe nothing to them. I will  _not_ be used.” 

 

“Like I said,” Hank shrugs. “I don’t care. Coin is coin.” 

 

“Oh, of  _course_.” Fierce eyes burn up at him, darker than mahogany. “The carefully neutral Witcher. Well, kill me. But remember, you are only allowed to live while the humans find you useful. Or have you already forgotten what they did to the rest of your kind?” 

 

Hank falters, just for a moment, when the memory of his fallen brothers stabs into his mind for the second time in as many days. His grip on his sword slackens ever so slightly but it’s enough. The sorcerer seizes his opportunity and with a grunt, Hank slams into the ground where the other man had been lying just seconds before. When he looks up, both the sorcerer and the entire cabin are gone.  

 

“Fucking sorcerers,” Hank grumbles, brushing himself off. “Fucking  _portals_.” 

 

 

_~_  

 

 

Hank’s not the biggest advocate of dishonesty, but neither is he a fan of going hungry because of underhanded tricky little shits of sorcerers. It’s not like he has Jeffery to lean over his shoulder and reprimand him anymore so he shoved away the momentary spike of guilt as he steals a cotton tunic from a washing line and shoots a rabbit with his crossbow, soaking the garment with blood. It’ll have to do and, even if it doesn’t, he’s at least two and a half thousand crowns better off than he was this morning.  

 

He knocks loudly on Reed’s door and shoves the tunic through the small gap as soon as the other man opens up, giving an affronted squawk at having bloody fabric stuffed into his face.  

 

“You did it?” He narrows his weasely eyes at Hank, looking between him and the shirt.  

 

“No,” Hank says dryly. “I killed a rabbit and slathered a random tunic with its blood.” 

 

Reed huffs. “Alright, alright, I was just checking, you don’t need to get so defensive.” 

 

Well. At least Hank can say he told the truth when asked.  

 

Reed tosses a second coin purse into Hank’s hands and slams the door before he can say anything else. Suits him just fine. Pockets considerably heavier, Hank whistles for Sumo and mounts him, flicking the reigns and leaving the dusty hamlet of Oreton behind them. Better to leave before questions start being asked. Besides, there’s a nicer village only a few miles away with a good tavern and a comfy inn. After the last few weeks spent sleeping outside, Hank is looking forward to an actual, comfortable bed.  

 

“Fancy a night in a stable?” He pats Sumo’s neck affectionately. “I think you deserve it more than I do.” 

 

The horse whickers softly, ears flicking happily to the sound of his master’s voice.  

 

 

~

 

 

Full, warm, and pleasantly tipsy, Hank flops onto the soft mattress and lazily kicks off his boots, sprawling across the bed clothes with a contented sigh. There’s no greater pleasure in life than a strong drink and a hot meal, besides perhaps a good fuck but Hank doesn’t think much of the brothels around aside from the Passiflora in Novigrad, and not many strangers are willing to be bedded by a Witcher. He considers calling for hot water for a bath but he’s just so comfy he doesn’t want to move. And comfort is a rare luxury in the life of a Witcher, so Hank intends to savour it for as long as he can.  

 

He almost falls asleep fully clothed on the bed but the insistent nagging of his bladder has him rolling to his feet with a groan. He stumbles over to the chamber pot and shoves his britches down to mid thigh so he can relieve himself, one hand braced against the wall to keep himself steady.  

 

He wouldn’t have heard it if his senses weren’t keener than any human’s. The soft creak of wood, the whisper of soles against floorboards. Slowly Hank shakes off and tucks himself away, keeping his left hand on the wall and moving his other hand to the dagger in his belt. His armour and swords are on the table at the other end of the room. His quiet assailant is approaching from the divot by the fireplace, directly between Hank and his weapons.  

 

Dagger it is, then.  

 

He waits until the intruder is barely four feet away before he spins, dagger in hand, pinning the assailant to the wall with a forearm against his throat. He digs the point of the blade underneath ribs, angled up to pierce the heart if he thrusts it in.  

 

“ _You_ _?_ ” Hank splutters, staring into the pretty face of the young sorcerer from Oreton. “What the  _fuck_?” 

 

He reels back as the sorcerer hits him underhandedly with a sharp kick between his legs, gasping gutturally and stumbling as a fist collides hard with the side of his face. He recovers quickly, lunging forward and tackling the sorcerer round the waist, throwing them both onto and across the bed, grunting as they topple off the other side and his back slams into the floor. He grabs the sorcerer’s thin wrists tightly, bones grinding his his grip, and rolls them over so he has the thinner man pinned underneath him.  

 

“Fucking hell, what was that for?” Hank pants, scowling down at the stupidly attractive and flushed idiot underneath him, loose strands of silver hair falling into his eyes.  

 

The sorcerer sneers up at him, hair mussed by the hood of the cloak round his shoulders that fell away when Hank tackled him. “I couldn’t resist,” he spits. “When I saw you come in, I figured I’d act before you did.” 

 

“What in the hell and fuck are you talking about?” 

 

“You’re exceptional trackers, you Witchers, I’ll give you that. I didn’t expect you to be able to pick up my trail so soon.” 

 

“Oh.” Hank finally understands, and should probably get off of him before things get more awkward. “I wasn’t tracking you.” 

 

Disbelief paints that pretty face. “No? You just coincidentally happened to arrive at the same inn I retreated to after you forced me to leave my home and took a contract to kill me?” 

 

Hank gets to his feet, tossing the fallen dagger on the table and holding his hands up, palms forward. “Contract’s been paid,” Hank says. “I’m not here to kill you. Didn’t even really want to. But you do what you gotta when you’re hard up for coin.” 

 

The sorcerer pushes himself up onto his elbows before slowly rising to his feet, straightening up and brushing his clothes down. He tilts his head, regarding Hank with a curious expression. “You really weren’t tracking me?” 

 

“Nope. Literally just came here to sleep on something that isn’t the ground and get a good meal. Kudos for managing to get in here without me noticing, by the way. It’s. It not easy to sneak up on a Witcher.” 

 

The sorcerer’s full lips curl up onto something like a smile. “Connor,” he says softly.  

 

“What’s that now?” 

 

“My name. It’s Connor.” 

 

“Oh.” Hank shifts, a little awkwardly. “Hank of Harviken.” 

 

“Skellige? You don’t have the accent.” 

 

“No, well, I wouldn’t. I’m a Witcher, I travel a lot.” 

 

Connor hums, steps closer. Hank frowns. He’s a lot tipsier than he thought. The sorcerer lifts a slender finger, taps the bear medallion against Hank’s chest. It hums under Connor’s fingertip. “I can see it now,” Connor murmurs, looking up at Hank through very long, very dark lashes. “You’re very much like a bear.” 

 

Hank’s not too drunk to see that for what it is. A very blatant, very obvious line. He swallows, mouth suddenly incredibly dry. Maybe a good fuck isn’t entirely off the table. His interest from earlier returns with a vengeance, the memory of that flushed face pinned underneath him.  

 

“How so?” Hank asks, voice rough but thankfully steady. Connor’s eyes flicker at the sound of it and that’s a lot more pleasing than it should be.  

 

“Strong,” Connor purrs, walking two fingers up Hank’s chest into the bare V of skin left by the open collar of his shirt. His hands are very warm. “Resilient. Agile.” His smile twists into something darker. “Considerably stamina. At least, I would hope so.” His eyes are very dark. “You really didn’t want to kill me?” 

 

“Why would I? Like I said, coin is coin. But no, I didn’t want to kill you. You’re not a monster. Humans are just… Like that.” 

 

Connor hums. “I do wish the handsome Witcher had come to my home on more pleasant business.” 

 

There it is. Hank seizes the chance like a predator to prey, hands snapping tight round Connor’s waist. The sorcerer huffs as he’s pulled tight against Hank’s chest, grinning, cheeks flushed enticingly.  

 

“My, my,” he purrs, leaning up so their lips are almost touching. “Have I caught the attention of an unflappable Witcher?” 

 

“Something like that,” Hank growls, leaning down to take Connor’s mouth hungrily— 

 

—And stumbling forward against nothing, the sound of teasing laughter echoing through the room. Hank grits his teeth and takes a deep, frustrated breath.  

 

“Fucking  _sorcerer_ _s,”_ he curses, storming over to the wash basin. It’ll have to be a cold bath tonight.  

 

 

 


End file.
